


Trust is Only Temporary

by bisney (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bisney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I guess Thor isn't the only Asgardian that gets hit by a car when he visits earth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust is Only Temporary

**Author's Note:**

> You are welcome to unleash your criticism and/or praise.

There was once a place I liked, in New York City, a sleek building that stood astoundingly high, overlooking the more slighter buildings scattered below; a building so tall that it became a reminder, a memoir of better times, and even petrifying remnants of destruction.

Yes, still that building stands but it conjures up inside of me a profound and sorrowful sensation inside of me whenever I compel myself to look up at that pompous structure. Such as there was once a place that I adored so much, there was once a person that I too adored. Immensely. A sudden surge of infatuation upon initial encounter, some would say, but I never assumed such a frivolous thing existed, because something so fable-like and artificial was just a practice that fools and absent-minded people were entertained by to give them empty hope.

Now I do remember! There was once a man―a creature made of grief and vague longings, a creature with soot hair and ice white skin, who had a deep, murderous desire for love.

I was absolutely fascinated by the sight of him. He had eyes of such a sinister otherness that it seemed to be filled with an invidious awareness much more inhuman than one may become unsettled to think upon. They were beguiling and devious, filled with wonders and deathless knowledge, of promises unkept and secrets well prominent and so much pain. There was no other person, mortal or immortal who's eyes ever expressed as much pain as his did to me.

It would be incompetent of me to tell you as the reader that meeting him is how the story begins when in truth, it all really began ten years ago when the Chitauri emerged from the myriads and nebulas of space to wreak havoc upon New York. I was nowhere near the city at the time. I was with Ms. Virginia "Pepper" Potts on a plane to―well, that's only a slight detail.

Wednesday, it was when the invasion took place, if I do remember correctly (and I'm certain of that because I distinctly remember Ms. Potts telling me over a cup of herbal tea I prepared for her one evening that we would be returning to New York precisely at noon on Wednesday), and fortunately for this realm, the band of heroes so riotously known as the Avengers were present to serve as protectors for us. I also remember returning to Stark Tower in a battered state and an equally battered Mr. Stark draped over the couch with some sort of sauce dabbed on the corner of his mouth (later telling us that he went to some rundown restaurant called Sharwarma after the whole invasion).

"About time you got back," he murmured facetiously into the pillow, a gentle smile on his lips.

A selective amount of glass was adorned on the black marble floor which had in it several dents and craters and tiny pieces of gold metal scattered to the opposite wall. For a moment we listened to the whistle of the wind as it howled through the massive hole gaping in the front window and then Mr. Stark found the opportunity to speak up.

"I was beginning to hire some other people to worship me. You two aren't very good at it."

Ms. Potts rolled her eyes and I discarded my notes on the glass-embellished counter and assisted JARVIS with the cleaning, that is until Mr. Stark asked me what was for the day's agenda, whereupon I absently responded with "More renovations".

And for the first time in the two weeks of his voice's absence, Tony Stark chuckled, though quickly followed by a firm reprimanding from Ms. Potts for "nearly destroying the entire city". It was quite an eventful day at Stark Tower.

Once the scolding came to a close and Ms. Potts fled to her office to embark on her unpacking, I followed Mr. Stark down to his shop with a box filled with sixteen even slices of pepperoni pizza and a mug of coffee wobbling on top. Staggering on a step nearly sent me over the edge and Mr. Stark as well, since he was worried for his coffee and it came to such a point of frantic wavering that he seized the mug and marched further down.

I gently placed the pizza box on the study desk, tentatively pushing a sparking piece of machinery aside. Mr. Stark plopped himself down on his chair and summoned a hologram of a model of Stark Tower―before it was savagely marred by the casualties.

"Is there anything you would like for me to do, Mr. Stark?" I inquired innocently.

Mr. Stark scowled. "I'll make it easy for you and tell you what I'd like for you to not do. For one, stop calling me Mr. Stark. That's my father."

"What will I call you then?" I demanded.

"By my name. And none of that polite stuff. Just get out with it. It's not working for me. And fix me some pizza. I'm starving here."

"Of course, Mr. Stark―um, Iron Man, Mr. Tony―"

He dismissed my stammering and bumbling with a careless wave of his hand. "It's a start."

"Anything else?"

"Fix me some pizza."

"You told me not to."

"When did I―Fine. Fine. I'll do it myself," he said sharply. He appeared to be somewhat irritated.

He flipped the top of the box open, ripping a slice from the circle and taking a careless bite from it. It took him approximately thirty seconds to finish eating that single slice. So I tried very feebly to change the topic to something subtle.

"How many of them do you think you knocked out, the Chitauri things I mean?" I asked after imploringly pushing his cup of coffee towards him, which he accepted appreciatively.

"Hmm. I don't know." He looked me in the face absently. "Probably around like... all of them. The Big Guy had a mean swing though."

"Oh, you mean the Hulk?"

"Goldilocks wasn't so bad either," he went on tediously, "I'm sure Cap tried to give me CPR at some point."

"What for?" I pried.

"To keep me alive, that's what."

He leaned back in his chair and casted a lingering glance towards the wall of glass that revealed a case of marble steps. He seemed to be slightly disoriented, yearning for something, for someone, for Ms. Potts.

"How long do you think she'll give me the Treatment?" he suddenly asked, drawing out the last word in almost one syllable.

"The Treatment?" I repeated blankly.

"You know, the silent treatment," he said, honestly surprised that I wasn't aware of Ms. Potts' tendencies. "You've been working for me for how long now, like a week? A month? How could you not―God!―you should know this!"

"What's the longest she's ever done?"

"Nine days." His face fastened with tense amusement.

"I give it three days." Then I added pointlessly, "Two tops."

"I propose a week, sir," JARVIS remarked over the intercom.

"No one asked you, JARVIS."

"Perhaps you should wait," I suggested.

"That only makes it worse."

"Then you should go apologize."

"Nope. Pisses her off even more." He bit down on his lip uncertainly, feeling as though he were torn in between going into a state of hysteria and saying nothing at all.

"You must do something."

"Can't. Want to, but can't. I'll just wait it out down here 'til she cools down."

After enduring through my schedule of organizing the wine bottles according to taste at the bar, and polishing and dusting the suits (and thoroughly avoiding the two used ones from battle), and assisting Ms. Potts with the renovations, I retired for the day, or rather the night because a shadow was beginning to fall over the city. I bided them each an individual farewell and gathered my things to make my leave to the lobby.

I mechanically decided to take the elevator down since it was the most convenient way of transportation at the time and as I was walking out, I stumbled across Dr. Bruce Banner on my way towards the exit. He smelled of fresh linen and a soft, summer night, wearing a small, sweet tremulous smile on his fluttery lips.

"Dr. Banner," I greeted softly. "It's a pleasure seeing you this evening."

"Um, hi," he returned, albeit with slight anxiety and then, he casted me a short, nervous glance, curious of something. "How do you know my name?"

"You're quite popular around New York," I answered innocently.

"Oh, right. I did do a little..." He cleared his throat. "...damage here and there." His voice was hollow and sheepish.

"You've made this city more safe than its ever been in years." I smiled to confirm this to him. "What can I do for you, Dr. Banner?"

"I was just going to, um―" He gestured to something unseen to us.

"Meet with Mr. Stark? He's working in his study now, but I'm sure seeing a friendly face will cheer him up. Would you like me to phone him and announce your arrival?"

He shook his head vigorously at the whole concept of the idea. "No thanks. I'll just surprise him," he quavered, though he seemed to compose himself and settle comfortably in my presence. Although I knew about his "condition" I couldn't fathom any sort of reason that would prompt him to feel nervous around me, if not goading him into doing something irrational―like tearing the city into ribbon.

"I don't think I ever got your name."

"Erin O'Farrell, Mr. Stark's personal assistant." I took his hand politely and gave it a firm, but gentle squeeze, pumping once, twice (as Ms. Potts trained me to do to seal a deal).

"Pleasure."

Mr. Banner stepped into the elevator where it shot him stories upon stories high, leaving me to climb into the limousine, which was waiting on the curbstone, and Happy Hogan drove me soundlessly away.

"Where to, Farrell?" Hogan asked, looking at me through the rear view mirror pleasantly.

"Same place as always, Hogan."

"How was the day?"

"Gloomy," I replied dryly. "Mr. Stark―I mean, Mr. Tony and Ms. Potts had a slight disagreement. She's giving him the Treatment."

"That's unfortunate. You know, the longest she's ever done is nine days."

"Oh I've heard. I hope that it doesn't last. It would be a shame if―"

It was the greatest difficulty that I should keep my composure in spite of the severe accident, for Hogan ran over something―or someone. Upon realizing this a look of terror crossed Hogan's face.

"I think I ran over something," he murmured.

"You should go―"

"Yeah, I should."

He rose and flew out of the car, but not before bumping his head against the roof. He staggered out in a quaking heap and searched the underside, scanning for anything peculiar to take concern to. It took every bit of effort to restrain myself from hopping out of the car to join him, though with ease he turned to reassure me, but just as he was verging onto doing so he cursed.

That was a thing Hogan was known not to do, but this was a rare occasion and surely he was just to do as such. For a long while he stood there trembling, stupefied and unabashedly dumbfounded. He had never been in such a shocked state.

Hogan gave a little shriek.

That was what brought me back to myself, seeing the horror in his eyes, and I clambered out and followed his gaze. This was the sight I saw―a figure lying in a graceless sprawl and mending colors of black and green cloths. They were face down into the cement and doubtlessly dead―or assumed to be dead. I had never seen a dead body outside of the television.

"We should bring them to the morgue and have a family claim them, or something," I hinted.

"We can't."

"Why not?"

Hogan gasped in a sharp breath, shaking visibly and he turned to me with a growing terror blossoming breathlessly in his eyes and he whispered in a low and grave voice, "I saw him move."

And sure enough a form of faint life stirred the body in the twitch of their forefinger.

I swallowed the shriek rising in me and cleared my throat.

"Then we should call the ambulance," I implored, "or bring him to the hospital ourselves."

"Yeah. Yeah, we should." He looked down at the body, a dawning realization glimmering in his eyes. He was on the verge of collapse.

It took as much effort to touch a hair on the body as it took as much effort to haul the body into the back seat with me in caution of awkwardly turning limbs or accidental collapsing from unconsciousness. The man's armor getup only worsened the load.

The man was bathed with smooth perspiration. His face, at that moment, could have been described as greying death and a poisonous look of growing misery and abashment. The yellowing tragic fatigue under his eyes, the glazed eyes, the grey lips, the pasty skin was a pitiful disposition. Suffice it to say that the ill sight of the man was all in all a terrifying experience that left me in a state that gave me very little to say to him; it seemed wisest to, presently, that is to have said something. It felt so easy to admire him, and that frightened me.

"I killed a man―"

"Keep it together, Hogan," I snapped, trying feebly to keep my own mind calm, "Someone must explain what happened when we get there."

"Erin, I killed a man. Don't you realize what will happen once―"

"He's very much alive."

"Barely." His eyes flashed around restlessly. "Make sure he stays awake."

The man's lips fluttered and faltered, breathing out a shuddery sigh of anguishing forlorn.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm going to have to ask you to keep your eyes open, for your sake." I adopted a waggish tone. "Perhaps you will suffer from amnesia and never be able to recall this night."

"Don't tell him that!" Hogan snapped with a flawless passion of frustration. "Where's the nearest hospital?"

"Don't take me there," the man husked, his hand slick with sweat and blood on my knee.

Had it not been for the car suddenly jostling at the hoarse sound and jarring my thoughts I would have fallen on him from my shock. So yes, it was confirmed at that particular moment that he was surely and wholeheartedly alive.

I regained a sense of control for myself and looked at the man apologetically.

"We need to get you to a hospital," I said, a wild sense of panic beating inside of me.

"No," he snarled, and that one word seemed to be the simplest and sane thing to say in his condition, because it expressed so much of his contempt.

Hogan swallowed hard. "He's still alive? Does he remember anything?"

"What do you propose we should do then, if not get you to safety? We can't let you die. We're involved now."

"Take me someplace else," he muttered. "I don't care where. Just not there."

"What is he saying, Erin? Erin?"

It was a blasphemous thing to say, I realize now, but it was clever just as it was mad to succumb to his husky words so obligingly. I had always been a little fool for the vulnerable. It was one of my many weaknesses just as it was one of my greatest strengths.

Loki―I finally realized after a few moments of looking closely at him―had a weary, faded look, appearing defeated in some way. He had plunged into a state that I couldn't help but feel was unsettlingly familiar to him. I wanted so desperately to assist him somehow, even if it meant that it would make me a fool to help the man who forced his reign upon New York. Nothing could conceal the help that he pleaded for.

"Alright, sir," I agreed in a hushed voice. "We won't go there."

At some point I explained to Hogan that it was the most stunning realization to figure that this man was a distant cousin of mine (that I recognized from several family photos) and that I would take him into my home and tend to him. The whole idea was outrageously outlandish and fabricated, but I dissuaded Hogan into believing it with remnants of doubt clinging to some knowing part of his mind.

Hogan and I assisted the man as crutches and half-carried him inside towards the couch. We and the world about us shared a series of relieved words. "Yes!" we all seemed to acclaim. The man sank into the couch, shutting his eyes gently so and breathing out a quiet breath of relief. Everything seemed to feel a little more melancholy once he settled.

"I'll leave you to that," Hogan said. Then he slipped out of the house without so much as a word.

Loki looked up at me with dim, sullen eyes, where a hint of curiosity soundlessly lurked. I stared in returned, fascinated.

"I recognize you from the news," I said gesturing to this, to that, and then to the television which was hanging adjacent to the fireplace, "You've become very popular around here in New York, and the world too, I think."

He raised his head slightly and glanced about the room shortly until he, compelled by something unseen, nodded in agreement. "Yes, I've noticed."

"If I'm not mistaken," I continued timidly, "you seemed to have already been on the ground when Hogan ran you over."

"That's only because I was. I fell from―" He interrupted himself suddenly. "―the sidewalk."

"Why, you were at least five feet away from it! There's no way you could've―"

"A man pushed me," he interjected casually, "He tried to steal my money and I refused, so he pushed me into the street and ran off―then you ran me over with that infernal vehicle." He glared at me defiantly. "As if being robbed wasn't enough."

"At least you weren't killed."

I wrung my hands together and looked closely at him, the ensemble of gold armor clad on his body mixing with silver and warm black leather. It was inevitable to regard him with compassion.

"Must be uncomfortable, that costume."

"I've grown accustomed to it," he remarked confidently, "It doesn't bother me."

"If I may."

He didn't allow himself a sliver of fright or distrust as I slowly reached out towards him and removed a plate of armor from his shoulder, secondly moving to removed the other and discarding them both on the low coffee table. Each piece was engraved with well intricate patterns and designs, some in which I recognized from a few mythology books that I read once in high school (and continued to read on my way to adulthood).

"My name is Erin O'Farrell, by the way," I remarked as I set the chest plate on the arm of the couch.

"So I've heard."

"I was just making sure―Oh my!―How much armor do you have on?" I demanded.

"As servile as you're being," he said recoiling back cautiously, "I must ask if you would leave the rest to me. I'd feel more comfortable."

There was a shift of his tunic, and the emerald cloth unfolded and exposed a deep gash to the cool air.

"I'm not very good with injuries. I've tended to minor ones for my boss, such as cuts and bruises..." My voice trailed off into a brief nothingness. "I'll go get the first aid kit and see what I can do."

I made to leave, but his weak, hoarse voice followed me towards the kitchen:

"Not necessary."

"You're bleeding on my couch!" I cried.

"I'm fine." He grunted, clasping a hand on his side to quell the pain.

"You don't seem to be."

"I will not repeat myself again, mortal," he snapped out.

I swallowed uneasily, feeling as though I had failed as being a good host and much less a qualified nurse.

"I'll fetch you some water then."

"Just leave me be!"

"It wasn't a suggestion, sir," I retorted sternly.

I felt that it was nevertheless the most firm words I could ever give to him that night. So feeling more confident and courageous I went into the kitchen and peered through the refrigerator for any fresh water bottles for him to take drink. Though occasionally I would toss a lingering glance over the refrigerator door to make certain Loki was still there―and breathing.

Even from the ten or so yards I stood away from him, it was blatantly evident that he the pain inside and outside of him tormented him. With how fragile his body was, it was a miracle that the impact of the car hadn't killed him on the spot.

I offered him the water bottle imploringly and he took it absently without a murmur or a hint of gratitude.

"You can stay for the night if you would like," I offered, "You can borrow my bedroom as well, if you would be comfortable."

"I'll do whatever is convenient for you."

"I can wash your clothes for you and you can change into some spare ones." He looked up at me questioningly, probably to the idea of me dressing him into my clothes. "I always have spares whenever my boss comes over after one of his drinking sprees."

He nodded.

Once he changed into the clothes―which consisted of a gray AC/DC shirt and white flannel pajama bottoms―I guided him down the brief narrow hallway to my room. His approval was not gaudy, but he seemed content with it.

"It will suffice," he consented stiffly.

"Great. I have some unfinished homework to do, but I'll be as quiet as possible so that you can rest."

I fled to my work desk and summoned a few holograms. Occasionally I turned around to make certain that Loki was still in bed, and sound asleep he was. That night him receiving his fair share of sleep was my sole priority.


End file.
